


An Imbalance of Humors

by temperamental_mistress



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Canon Era, Disabled Character, Joly has a bad knee, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-31 19:55:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: Bossuet catches a cold. As usual, Joly frets until he's equally ill.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shellcollector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellcollector/gifts).



> Happy holidays, dear shellcollector! I hope they are filled with warmth and light and only good things! <3

Bossuet was overdue for a turn in his luck. It had been nearly two weeks without incident, and Joly was beginning to worry. Experience had taught him well that a long streak of good fortune could only mean that a greater than usual spot of bad luck was sure to follow. He sincerely hoped the police would not be involved this time.  
  
Every uneven cobblestone set Joly’s heart racing as the pair made their way through the mud-slick streets. It was impossible to predict where or when Bossuet’s luck would resume its usual custom. Three straight days of rain was hardly a good omen at a time like this, and the twisting in Joly’s chest only increased with each carriage that splashed past them. His own luck had been unusually poor that week, leaving several important pages of notes illegible after he had dropped them in a puddle. While he would have liked to wait out the rain, exams were looming every closer, and Joly had thought it best to risk the journey to borrow Combeferre’s notes. Thankfully, they had reached the other man’s lodgings without so much as a hangnail to cause them grief, and were able to return to Joly’s rooms before the grey skies could grow too dark.  
  
“You’ll need a ship to sail to your exams if this keeps up,” Bossuet sniffed, patting his pockets in search of his key. When he turned them out, both were empty.  
  
Joly grinned up at him fondly, shifting his cane to his other hand so he might retrieve his own key, “And be lost at sea? I think not. If a sailor’s credentials are required to become a surgeon these days, I may need to reconsider my career choices.”  
  
Bossuet held the door for him once it was opened, “You’re nearly a pirate already, between that peg leg of yours and all the smuggling we’ve done this month.”  
  
‘Perhaps I shall be the first pirate to never go to sea, then,” he shed his coat and hat, hanging them to dry. Though he stepped out of the puddle gathering at their feet, his red-brown hair continued to drip onto his shoulders. “Sometimes I get seasick just looking at water.”  
  
Again, Bossuet sniffed, using his handkerchief to dry the top of his head. Joly paused, observing his companion closely. Could he have caught a chill in the short time they had been out in the elements? It was certainly possible, Joly mused. Bossuet’s hat had been missing for some weeks, and it would be his sort of luck to fall ill after such a short excursion…  
  
“Something the matter, Captain?” Bossuet asked.  
  
Joly shook his head, “Stop that. Next you’ll be hiring me a crew.”  
  
“I humbly offer my services as your First Mate,” he gave an elaborate sweeping bow. Before Joly could even begin to laugh, however, Bossuet sneezed.  
  
Immediately, Joly’s chest grew tight, “I knew it. You’ve been sniffling since we left Combeferre’s.” He reached a hand up to feel Bossuet’s forehead, just barely tall enough to reach.  
  
“It’s only a cold, Joly.”  
  
There was no fever, but Joly didn’t dare tempt fate, “You should be resting. To bed with you.”  
  
“I’m no worse off than after a night of drinking,” Bossuet insisted, but Joly was already shepherding him towards the bedroom.  
  
“Have you been—“  
  
“No, Joly.” Bossuet sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and rubbed at his nose with his rain-damp handkerchief, “This is nothing to worry yourself over. It’ll be gone by morning, you’ll see.”  


* * *

  
When Joly awoke from his fitful sleep for the fourth time, he gave up entirely. He pressed his thumb and forefinger into the wells of his eyes, trying to force wakefulness into them. The day ahead was going to be a long one. Outside, the rain fell as heavily as ever.  
  
Bossuet’s cold had not gone away. Instead, it had settled into his chest overnight. The thick, wet cough that accompanied this development was doing nothing for Joly’s nerves. Rationally, he knew it was only a passing symptom. With rest and fluids, Bossuet would be back to his normal self in a few days’ time. Yet every cough brought to mind memories of consumptive patients Joly had seen during his studies, and the very thought was enough to leave him feeling unbalanced.  
  
He didn’t normally bother with his cane while at home, but today he kept it in hand as he went to put on the kettle. As he stood waiting, Joly fought down the growing wave of anxiety in his chest, and focused on making a list of all that needed to be done. The bed was still properly aligned — Bossuet had helped him move it only the week before. They had enough tea on hand, and he could make broth well enough, even if the rest of his cooking left something to be desired.  
  
Joly turned at the creak of the bed, and steeled himself against the coughing fit that followed it. Just a cold, he reminded himself. Still, he had to wait until the fit passed before he could take the cup of tea in his free hand and make his way back to the bedroom.  
  
“Good morning,” Bossuet muttered from beneath the blankets, the greeting carrying none of it’s usual cheer and enthusiasm. He eyed Joly’s cane and raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Just stiff from the weather,” Joly assured him and set the tea on the night table. His hand rose automatically to check for fever, and he was relieved to find none. “How are you feeling?” The response was an exhausted grumble as Bossuet rolled over, but Joly caught his shoulder, “Tea first, then you can go back to sleep.”  
  
Bossuet relented. As he drank, Joly fussed. Every pillow was adjusted, several spare handkerchiefs stacked on the night table, and an extra blanket spread over the bed. When there was nothing left to do, Joly fidgeted, certain that he had missed something.  
  
“I’m fine, Joly,” Bossuet said as he handed over his empty cup. “I’ll sleep it off. You should go study.”  
  
Joly forced a smile, and rearranged the blankets over the taller man as he resettled himself. He stayed until Bossuet had fallen asleep again. It took some effort and two false starts to actually stand and leave the room.  
  
For an hour, he was able to relax enough to study. It helped that he could hear Bossuet’s thunderous snores clearly from the other room. His notes and those borrowed from Combeferre covered the table easily, and he had plenty to keep his mind from inventing new, more deadly diagnoses every few minutes.  
  
Joly’s pen jumped as the snores cut off abruptly, replaced by another coughing fit. In an instant he was on his feet, limping back towards the bedroom. By the time he arrived, Bossuet had dozed off again, the snores resuming a moment later.  
  
His heart raced, and it was a struggle to keep his panic at bay. There was no way he could continue studying in the other room. What if something happened? What if Bossuet came down with a fever? You couldn’t hear a fever.  
  
He left his notes scattered across the table, and pulled a chair into the bedroom to sit beside Bossuet’s bed. There would be plenty of time to study once Bossuet was well again, Joly reasoned, sniffling. Instead, he picked up a book Prouvaire had lent him and tried to distract himself anew.  
  
The day continued this way until nightfall. The rain fell, Bossuet slept, and Joly fretted. Sometimes he was impossibly still, eyes following the rise and fall of his companion’s chest. Other times he paced, trying not to wake Bossuet with his constant movement. He stifled the occasional sneeze with a handkerchief, but Bossuet took no notice.  
  
They shared a supper of bread and broth when Bossuet woke in the evening. He looked more rested, even though coughing had roughened his voice and his nose still dripped relentlessly. The wind outside drove the rain against the windows.  
  
“Should we batten down the hatches?” Bossuet asked, reaching for his handkerchief as another sneeze caught him off-guard.  
  
“Hmm?” Joly looked up from his bowl, trying to remember what they had been talking about. Had they even been talking? He could hardly focus on a thought before his mind went racing off after another possible way Bossuet’s illness could take a turn for the worse.  
  
“Come to bed. You look done in.”  
  
Joly shook his head, “Not yet.” He couldn’t possibly sleep now, not with his mind racing as it was.  
  
Bossuet fought back a yawn. “I would sleep better with you at my side…”  
  
He recognized that tone of voice, and immediately plastered on a smile. The last thing he needed was for Bossuet to worry over him while he was supposed to be recovering, “Soon. I just want to straighten up and put my notes away.”  
  
Bossuet didn’t look entirely convinced, but at least he did not fight the matter, “Don’t stay up too late, Joly.”

 

* * *

  
The rain finally stopped during the night, and Bossuet woke to late morning sun filtering through the shutters. His head didn’t ache nearly as much as it had the night before, and while he couldn’t breathe through his nose, he didn’t feel terrible. He almost rolled over to go back to sleep, but the empty space at his side stopped that idea before it could fully form. A moment’s search found Joly asleep in a chair beside the bed, still in yesterday’s clothing. Dark shadows sat heavily beneath the shorter man’s eyes, exhaustion lining his features.  
  
Bossuet put a hand out to touch Joly’s, and the redhead immediately startled, knocking his cane to the floor. “Easy,” he soothed. “It’s just me.” He watched the panic slowly recede, Joly’s wild eyes darting from one thing to the next.  
  
“Tell me you didn’t spend all night like that,” he moved to sit up, but Joly immediately pushed him back against the pillows, ignoring him.  
  
“You shouldn’t be up. You’re still ill,” Joly adjusted the top blanket, drawing it up to his chin.  
  
“I’m feeling much improved—“  
  
“You coughed half the night,” Joly insisted, fussing with the items on the night table.  
  
Bossuet tried to catch his flighty gaze, “I have a cold, not cholera.”  
  
The joke did not carry, and Joly only stiffened further, “Obviously not. Cholera doesn’t affect the lungs.” Before Bossuet could offer any further protest, Joly disappeared to make tea.  
  
He sighed and stayed put. As much as he wanted to fight Joly on the matter, sometimes it was better to obey. The medical student was less likely to have a complete meltdown if Bossuet at least pretended to rest. That lasted for all of a minute before he remembered that the cane was still on the floor. He had just leaned over the side of the bed to retrieve it when Joly returned.  
  
“Leave it!” he scrambled forward, limp more pronounced than it had been the day before. “Please, just stay put. I’ll have breakfast ready in a minute.”  
  
Bossuet bit his tongue. There was no arguing with Joly when he was like this. The moment Bossuet fell ill, Joly’s anxieties grew tenfold, and things only became progressively more frustrating from there. Once they had spent two days shouting each other hoarse because Joly had fretted himself sick and refused to listen to reason. Now, Bossuet knew that this particular method was useless, but had yet to work out a way to talk Joly down from the cliff of his own worry.  
  
From the next room, Bossuet heard the sound of stifled coughing, and knew things were bad. If Joly was so anxious that he couldn’t even fret over his own health, then things were dire indeed. Through the open door, he was just able to see Joly grip the back of a chair for support as the coughing fit grew worse. That was the final straw. Bossuet threw back the covers and heaved himself to his feet.  
  
“Steady at the helm there, Captain.”  
  
Joly turned at once, still trying to catch his breath, “Where are you going?”  
  
“Nowhere,” Bossuet promised, “but you are coming to bed.”  
  
Joly shook his head, eyes darting wildly, “I can’t, I have to—“  
  
“You have to rest,” Bossuet set his hands on the redhead’s shoulders, forcing him to stand still. “Please, Joly.”  
  
For a long moment they stared at each other, locked in a wordless argument. Joly set his jaw stubbornly, though the sniffle that followed did little to bolster this display. Bossuet raised an eyebrow. Joly countered with a small, huffing sigh. Bossuet raised the other eyebrow, knowing the battle was nearly won.  
  
“I would feel worlds better if you came and rested beside me.”  
  
Joly’s shoulders slumped, and he relented at last. Bossuet offered a steadying arm and led him back to the bed. Even in defeat, he still tried to fight.  
  
“I should take the outside, in case you have need of—“  
  
“I won’t,” Bossuet smiled, helping him with the buttons on his waistcoat. “I’m almost over this dreaded cold anyway.”  
  
“In my medical opinion—“  
  
At this, he couldn’t help but laugh, “You’re a patient. You don’t get to have a medical opinion. Now, move over.” He gave the smaller man a nudge towards the wall.  
  
Soon, the pair was buried beneath the mountain of blankets, and Joly was safely ensconced in Bossuet’s arms. He sniffled against Bossuet’s chest, only the very top of his head visible above the blankets.  
  
“You can’t look after me,” came the muffled complaint a few minutes later. “You’re still sick yourself.”  
  
“Combeferre will be by in a few hours,” Bossuet reassured him.  
  
“Wh—how?”  
  
He smiled and pressed a kiss to the crown of red hair, “He knows how you get whenever i’m ill. I asked him the other night to stop by if you weren’t at the meeting.”  
  
Joly’s head shot up and he nearly slammed it into Bossuet’s jaw, “Oh God, I missed the meeting!”  
  
“Hush,” Bossuet pulled him back down, holding him more tightly, “The others will have figured out why. If any dare to fault you for it, I’ll send them to a watery grave.”  
  
“Unless you plan on drowning them in the Seine, that might be difficult in Paris.”  
  
“After all that rain? There’s bound to be an ocean out there by now,” Bossuet smiled into Joly’s hair, and rubbed soothing circles into his shoulder. He whispered nonsense about their imagined adventures as pirates until his voice was on the verge of giving out entirely. Just as he got around to giving their ship a name, he felt the tension disappear beneath his hands as Joly fell asleep at last.

 

* * *

  
Bossuet startled as a hand pressed to his forehead, “Joly?” He turned immediately to look, but the other man was still asleep, curled up against his side.  
  
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Combeferre spoke just above a whisper, and moved his hand away. “How are you feeling?”  
  
Bossuet didn’t take his eyes from Joly. “Better, despite all his fretting. I don’t think he slept last night.”  
  
The medical student reached out to test Joly’s forehead for fever, his touch impossibly gentle. He nodded after a moment, and settled back into the bedside chair. “He’s worn himself out, as usual.”  
  
“Sometimes I think I’d be more worried if he didn’t panic over every little thing,” Bossuet sighed. Joly’s eyes were still underscored by dark shadows, but at least the lines had retreated from his face.  
  
“Well, he wouldn’t be Joly then, would he?” Combeferre drew his attention away from the sleeping man at last, “Everyone sends their well-wishes, by the way. A few even threatened to come look after you.”  
  
Bossuet fought to keep his laughter from turning into a coughing fit, “I appreciate your keeping them at bay. Joly’s enough of a handful without anyone else around for him to fuss over.”  
  
“I’ll keep them away as long as I can, but you know they’ll be here as soon as they think I’m not paying attention. They mean well, but they forget that even I am a better patient than Joly.” Combeferre reached over to smooth the hair away from Joly’s face, smiling fondly. “You should rest if you can. I’ll be here if either of you need anything.”  
  
“Thank you,” Bossuet offered a smile of his own, and settled himself more comfortably. He wrapped a protective arm around Joly, as much to reassure his companion as to comfort himself. Listening to Joly’s easy breathing, and the occasional turn of a page as Combeferre thumbed through the book on the nightstand, Bossuet drifted into a more restful sleep.


End file.
